Read Online A Small Fortune by Audrey Braun - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Audrey Braun
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while Jonathon’s shaky hands let go the napkin, brushed crumbs from the table, and lined the silverware next to his plate.
Seth Reilly had been the neighborhood bookseller. His smile coy, ironic, lopsided as if everything he said was a double entendre. There was something familiar about his Celtic good looks from the beginning, and one day it dawned on me how much he resembled a young Robert Redford. Very young. Younger than the Redford of Barefoot in the Park with Jane Fonda, but with the same sexy, sardonic wit. You couldn’t live in our little enclave of historic homes and local restaurants and antique shops and not know Seth with his strawberry hair messing in the wind as he rode by on his Dutch bike with the red panniers. Not if you were a woman. Seth was a page-turner himself. Always leaving you wanting for more.
Jonathon was East Coast prep school, blond hair and square jawline, broad shoulders and tie. He was smart, a deep thinker, you could see it in his eyes, but he was never one to share too many thoughts. He was adequate in bed, knowing where to go and, more or less, how long to stay. He was quiet and kind, and there was a time when this sort of personal space bubble appealed to me. There was a time when I liked to say I was married to the president of a bank, especially when I thought of my mother. Then there was all the time after.
Jonathon never did throw his napkin at me. He got up and used it to clean Oliver’s hands. He lifted our son from his highchair and set him on the floor where the symphony of squeaky plush toys had scattered.
He returned to his chair in what appeared to be measured steps. He took a deep breath, cleared his voice, and said, “I suppose I haven’t been a very good husband.”
I couldn’t speak. His words felt like a lightning rod to the chest, jolting me back to my husband and little boy who was now giggling in the most charming way on the floor of our Irvington Avenue home.
“Crap,” Oliver said. His new favorite word. “Crap, crap, crap,” with a monkey grin until I raised an eyebrow and gave him the look of mock discipline he was waiting for. He laughed and moved on to the animal nesting blocks.
I turned to Jonathon, flushed with shame. “I’m sorry,” I said, and at the time, I meant it.
“How?” Jonathon asked me.
“How?”
“How did you manage it?”
I fumbled for an answer. “Tara, the high school girl down the street.” Was that what he was after? The logistics of how and where the affair took place? “She babysat while I was…out.”
I hated myself then. The shame was unbearable. It scratched and burned my insides like shards of broken glass.
Jonathon took his wallet from his rear pocket and set it on the table. He picked it back up and returned it to his pocket, a gesture that has always struck me as odd. “Don’t leave me,” he said.
Don’t leave me .
Oliver must have sensed the standing hairs on my arms and neck. He looked up from the floor as if waiting to hear my reply. And what was it going to be? The course of Oliver’s childhood, the course of his entire life, of all of our lives, was about to be handed down like a sentence.
“I won’t,” I said, turning my watery gaze from Oliver to Jonathon.
I would cross town to purchase books. I would never see Seth again.
That was fourteen years ago. It’s far too late for me to be asking why Jonathon wanted me to stay, why I myself promised not to leave.
Now I lie here thinking how everything I convinced myself was one way has turned out to be another, and I feel an almost physical sensation of coming apart at the seams.
Things I never questioned seem so obvious now. I’ve conveniently taken no interest in the phone bills. It doesn’t seem necessary. Jonathon handles all the bills. He’s a banker. He likes that sort of thing. But when I have taken an interest in Jonathon’s flurry of texts and e-mails, sometimes during the middle of a meal, times when Oliver isn’t allowed to
Seth Reilly had been the neighborhood bookseller. His smile coy, ironic, lopsided as if everything he said was a double entendre. There was something familiar about his Celtic good looks from the beginning, and one day it dawned on me how much he resembled a young Robert Redford. Very young. Younger than the Redford of Barefoot in the Park with Jane Fonda, but with the same sexy, sardonic wit. You couldn’t live in our little enclave of historic homes and local restaurants and antique shops and not know Seth with his strawberry hair messing in the wind as he rode by on his Dutch bike with the red panniers. Not if you were a woman. Seth was a page-turner himself. Always leaving you wanting for more.
Jonathon was East Coast prep school, blond hair and square jawline, broad shoulders and tie. He was smart, a deep thinker, you could see it in his eyes, but he was never one to share too many thoughts. He was adequate in bed, knowing where to go and, more or less, how long to stay. He was quiet and kind, and there was a time when this sort of personal space bubble appealed to me. There was a time when I liked to say I was married to the president of a bank, especially when I thought of my mother. Then there was all the time after.
Jonathon never did throw his napkin at me. He got up and used it to clean Oliver’s hands. He lifted our son from his highchair and set him on the floor where the symphony of squeaky plush toys had scattered.
He returned to his chair in what appeared to be measured steps. He took a deep breath, cleared his voice, and said, “I suppose I haven’t been a very good husband.”
I couldn’t speak. His words felt like a lightning rod to the chest, jolting me back to my husband and little boy who was now giggling in the most charming way on the floor of our Irvington Avenue home.
“Crap,” Oliver said. His new favorite word. “Crap, crap, crap,” with a monkey grin until I raised an eyebrow and gave him the look of mock discipline he was waiting for. He laughed and moved on to the animal nesting blocks.
I turned to Jonathon, flushed with shame. “I’m sorry,” I said, and at the time, I meant it.
“How?” Jonathon asked me.
“How?”
“How did you manage it?”
I fumbled for an answer. “Tara, the high school girl down the street.” Was that what he was after? The logistics of how and where the affair took place? “She babysat while I was…out.”
I hated myself then. The shame was unbearable. It scratched and burned my insides like shards of broken glass.
Jonathon took his wallet from his rear pocket and set it on the table. He picked it back up and returned it to his pocket, a gesture that has always struck me as odd. “Don’t leave me,” he said.
Don’t leave me .
Oliver must have sensed the standing hairs on my arms and neck. He looked up from the floor as if waiting to hear my reply. And what was it going to be? The course of Oliver’s childhood, the course of his entire life, of all of our lives, was about to be handed down like a sentence.
“I won’t,” I said, turning my watery gaze from Oliver to Jonathon.
I would cross town to purchase books. I would never see Seth again.
That was fourteen years ago. It’s far too late for me to be asking why Jonathon wanted me to stay, why I myself promised not to leave.
Now I lie here thinking how everything I convinced myself was one way has turned out to be another, and I feel an almost physical sensation of coming apart at the seams.
Things I never questioned seem so obvious now. I’ve conveniently taken no interest in the phone bills. It doesn’t seem necessary. Jonathon handles all the bills. He’s a banker. He likes that sort of thing. But when I have taken an interest in Jonathon’s flurry of texts and e-mails, sometimes during the middle of a meal, times when Oliver isn’t allowed to
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